


You Know Nothing, Sansa Stark

by kenim



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenim/pseuds/kenim
Summary: Sandor survives Cleganebowl, and rides North to try and find his place in the universe, after his life's work for revenge has been fulfilled. (Sansa POV)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. I am ignroing what happened to Sandor (and most of Season 8, to be honest). I want Sandor's story to end better than revenge, and so I decided to write it myself so that I can do what I want, lolz. Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Thank you!

Sansa starred at the piece of parchment held between her hands, a small smile gracing her lips. ...this suffocating heat does me make miss the cold of winterfell… It was her first letter from Arya, only three weeks had passed since they had parted, and she already missed her annoying little sister terribly. She had read the letter at least a dozen times, and her thumb rested on Arya’s messy signature at the bottom. 

The North was home, but it did feel colder without her siblings. She had taken well to her role as queen, as all had expected, but the painstaking loneliness that had found her was unexpected. 

“Queen Sansa,” She lifted her gaze from the parchment, her eyes landing on a Northman standing in her doorway. He smiled at her, though most of his face was shadowed by a hood. “There is someone here I am told you would like to see.”

“Who?”

“Forgive me, my grace, I did not get his name.” Sansa nodded, rising from her seat and dismissing the man. She trusted her Northernfolk-- If they believed she would be glad to see this visitor, well, that was good enough for her. 

She hoped it was Jon. She knew it could not be, but he seemed the most plausible. The Night’s Watch truly wasn’t that far from Winterfell, perhaps he had felt a pang to see his family as well. She smiled at the thought of seeing her brother again so soon, and used her palms to smooth the wrinkles in her dress. 

Her footsteps echoed through the stone halls as she made her way to Winterfell’s entrance, running her slender fingers through her hair and straightening her crown. Appearance’s no longer mattered to her as they once had when she was a child, but a well-kempt queen with a straightened crown was certainly the energy she wanted to put forth in the world.

As soon as her eyes landed on the stranger she knew it was not Jon, and a wave of disappointment crashed through her. This man was much taller, his shoulders broader and his hair thinner. She stared at him, watching as he yanked his hood back over his head and turned around, their eyes meeting. “Sandor,” she breathed, her excitement returning.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so elated to see him, they barely knew each other, if she were to be honest. He was rude and cynical, and always chose harsh words, even with her. Yet he had protected her. He had laughed with her. He never questioned her strength of character. He had been a constant presence during the last few hellish battles, a calming presence, for whatever reason. He felt familiar. Comfortable. He had fought alongside them against the dead, and against Cersei. No wonder her men had been happy to welcome him in. His face was not an easy one to forget.

“Sandor,” she said again, having crossed the distance between them. 

“Sansa,” he responded, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Queen Sansa now, actually,” she grinned.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, “Queen fucking Sansa.” 

She took a moment to take in his appearance. He looked far worse off than the last time she had seen him, as though he had fallen from a building of ash. The wind had blown his hood off once more, and she saw burns now ran along his neck, and what must have been a deep gash had healed to a scar under his chin. She wondered how the rest of his body had been bruised, but whatever new scars he had were hidden under layers of fur. “Why are you here, Sandor?”

“Nowhere else to go. Hate the south, hate the north, but at least most of its still fucking standing.”

She smirked, “Come inside. It is cold out here and you look terrible.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I have something for you,” Sansa smiled, making her way to the chest at the foot of her bed. Sandor was sitting in a chair near the entrance of her bedchamber, his snow-sodden furs hanging off the back of it. He was still in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, but he had his arms locked together, trying to keep in his body heat. He had bathed at Sansa’s request, but he did not have clothes to wear other than what he rode in on. 

“Here,” she grinned, and with a grand flourish she pulled an old, white cloak from the bottom of the chest. “You gave this to me, in King’s Landing, when--”

“--I remember,” he grumbled, no longer looking into her eyes. 

She crossed the room to him, standing behind him and draping the cloak over his shoulders, her arms encircling him to properly place it. She let her arms rest around him for a few seconds longer than she needed, enjoying the feel of his thick muscles underneath her thin arms. She closed her eyes, wondering sadly when the last time had been that she had welcomed human contact with someone outside of her immediate family. 

Her fingers began working to secure the cloak, and she rested her chin on Sandor’s shoulder, allowing herself to breathe in his scent. He smelled like mint and pine, like a cool breeze in a summer forest. Her cheeks turned red when she realized how long she had been standing over him, her hands on his chest and her chin on his shoulder. 

“Why do you still have this junk?”

“It is not junk,” she reprimanded, frowning. The blush in her cheeks remained as she balanced herself on the arm of the chair in which Sandor sat. He turned his gaze to her, raising his brow. She sighed. “I made them get it for me, a long time ago. I always kept it. In King’s Landing, whenever I wished to disappear, I wrapped myself in it. It made me feel safe somehow.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Sandor spat. “I was as bad as the rest of them. Worse.”

“No, you weren’t,” she smiled, reaching out a slender hand and pushing his freshly-washed hair behind his ear. 

He shrugged her off, suddenly jumping to his feet. “Goodnight, San-- Queen Sansa.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for you support! It means the world to me! I'm still not entirely sure where I am going with this fic, aside from just amusing myself with some Sansan. Sooo here is Chapter 2.

It had been three days since Sandor had arrived in Winterfell, and three days since Sansa had spoken with him. He was careful to keep his distance, though he never strayed too far. A few of Sansa's men had taken to him, opting to eat meals with him and spar with him when they had a few minutes of spare time. Sansa liked to watch him in these moments. It was a side of him she had not seen much in the past. He seemed relaxed, though still brutish and cold, clanking toy swords together with men who were quick to admit his skills far surpassed theirs. He really seemed to be fitting in, and Sansa was happy for him. Genuinely so. 

But she wanted to talk to him as well. She wasn't sure how to start the conversation again. He had stormed out of her chambers in a huff, his white cloak still wrapped around him, leaving her confused and alone. For a moment she was hurt, but that quickly turned to frustration-- She had done nothing wrong. She wanted to tell him as much, but she also wanted to forget the entire thing, and just talk to him again, period.

She was trying to sort these frustrations into words for her sister, and found herself wishing Arya was next to her. Sansa wasn't fool enough to believe Arya would offer any sage words of wisdom, and was fairly certain she would just mock her, but the familiarity of that would still be welcomed. Sansa sighed. The sun had just begun it's decent outside her window, and she opted to put down the quill and ink and take a walk to clear her head. 

"Your grace," a guard smiled at her as she exited her chamber, making to follow her through the halls.

"I would like some time to myself, Ser Kayne, thank you." He seemed about to argue, but one look from her and he thought better of it. He nodded stiffly, keeping watch at the entrance to her door.

The weather was growing steadily colder, and Sansa shivered, wishing she had grabbed a heavier fur but not caring quite enough to turn back around. Her breath plumed out in front of her, and her pale cheeks took on a red hue. She wasn't sure where she was going, she just kept walking, down towards the buildings where no one would be at this hour. Down towards the building where Bran had been thrown to the ground so many years before. She stopped in front of it, thinking briefly of her younger brother, missing him but knowing even if she traveled to King's Landing she would never have a conversation with her brother Bran again. She sighed heavily, shouldering her way inside.

She jumped and let out an exclamation of surprise when she saw a figure at the far end of the room, sitting in a chair near a dying flame. Her hand flashed to the door. The figure lifted his head, and Sansa saw his face in the dull firelight. Sandor, she thought, and felt herself relax. Not completely, but more so than she would have with almost any other man. This scene was all too horrifying for her, but she knew Sandor. She trusted the Hound. "Sansa?" His voice was gruff, confused. "Why are you here?"

"I- I don't know. I needed a walk," Sansa offered, walking further into the room.

Sandor nodded, rising to his feet, "I'll leave you to it, then." He walked for the exit.

Sansa felt a flash of frustration as he walked past her, though it was quickly replaced by sadness. She reached-out, placing her hand on his arm, stopping him. "Did I-- Did I do something wrong?"

He stopped in his tracks, still staring straight ahead. "No, Little Bird, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Then talk to me. Please," she sighed, and he turned to look at her.

"What do you want me to say?"

"What? I-I don't know," she stuttered, confused. She slid her hand down his arm, taking his hand. "Why did you leave the other night?"

He looked down at their hands, his much larger hand held loosely in her small palm. "I am not a good fucking man, girl. I don't know what you've managed to convince yourself of, but your better off staying away."

"If you didn't want to see me, why did you come back to the North?" Sansa all but hissed.

"I had nowhere else to go. I knew you would be fool enough to let me stay," his voice was gruff, dripping with an unjustified anger. He pulled his hand away from hers.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? This who I am, girl."

"No, it's not. I know it's not."

"You know nothing," he sneered, turning his back to her, reaching for the door.

"Sandor, please," Sansa choked out, her voice near tears. "Please don't do this. Please don't act like this."

"Why?"

"Because-- Because I need you," the words stumbled out, and Sandor finally turned to look at her again. His face had softened, his eyes heavy with a sadness that surely reflected her own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support! Updating this as frequently as I am able, though still not sure where I am taking it. This chapter is SUCH a trope and I have approximately 0 regrets. (: (Also, still in denial there will not be a new Thrones episode tomorrow night...)

"What do you need me for, girl? You're the Queen of the North... You have everything you've ever wanted," Sandor said, his tone soft. Sansa welcomed his calmness, relishing in it, glad he was no longer standing with clenched fists and tightened jaw.

His words stung. They should have been true. She should be happier than she had ever been... But she wasn't. She felt the familiar sting of tears in her eyes and stomped towards the fire, suddenly wishing he would leave, as not to see her cry. She prided herself on how little she cried now. She was not a weak child, and tears were for children. Tears would not solve her problems. "You are right, Sandor," was all she managed to say, starring into the fire. "I have everything I ever wanted."

"And?"

"And I am miserable," she laughed, sitting down with her back against the wall, her head bobbing forward, red hair falling over her shoulders and hiding her face. "What kind of pompous child am I? I am the Queen, I love my people, I am at home, in Winterfell, and yet..." Her voice trailed off. She did not know where her words were going to take her. And yet what? "I miss my family, Sandor," she whispered, lacing her fingers together, starring into the fire still.

She heard his footsteps moving closer, his shadow dancing along the wall as he sat down next to her. "I miss the little wolf-bitch, too," he admitted, looking at Sansa with a bit of a blush on his cheeks.

Sansa smiled though, a genuine smile. "She missed you, too. She was devastated when no one found you after the battle, and we assumed you dead."

"Only because she thought she would be the one to kill me."

"True," Sansa smiled, offering a sarcastic chuckle. The Hound chuckled as well. "What did happen? You were gone for weeks..."

Sandor sighed, and he looked as though he wasn't going to tell her. "I found my brother," his voice was deep, gravelly. Sansa reached over, once again taking one of his much larger hands in hers, tracing her thumb over his knuckles. "I killed him. He almost killed me. I thought I was dead."

"I am glad you are not."

"That makes one of us."

"What? What do you mean?" Sansa asked, her face falling. "You wish to be dead?"

Silence. Sansa felt a sharp pain in her heart, as though it had just broken for him. She inched closer to him, until their arms were pressed against each other, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Neither spoke again, allowing a comfortable silence to stretch-out before them. Sansa listened to the sound of his breathing, in and out, in and out... The very sign that he was alive. The fire before them slowly began to die, and a chill swept through the stone room. Sandor lifted his arm, wrapping it around her and pulling her closer. She snuggled into his warmth, glad to be here, with him. It felt right. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She blinked her eyes open as sunlight filtered in the next morning, letting out a big yawn. She felt a weight draped over her shoulders, and as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she turned to see the Hound still sitting next to her. She smiled. A large arm was still wrapped around her, and his head lolled forward, a light snore escaping him as he slept. She had never seen him look so peaceful, and she hated that she had to disturb him, but judging on the amount of light in the room it was about time for her to make an appearance. "Sandor," she whispered, shaking him slightly. "Sandor, wake up."

 

He woke with a start, his eyes flashing open. For a moment he looked confused, wide-eyes looking around. The scene made Sansa let out a light laugh, and he turned his attention to her. He grunted what might have been a 'good morning' before rising to his feet, offering a hand to pull her to hers. 

 

She smoothed out her dress as she stood there, though she couldn't hide the fact that it looked slept-in. Sandor's gaze was serious as he looked at her, enough to make her blush. He reached out his hands, straightening the crown that still sat atop her head, and weaving his fingers through her long hair to untangle a few knots. Their eyes met, and she starred into his unwaveringly. She wasn't sure how long she starred at him, but she felt herself moving slowly closer, wanting to brush her lips against his-- "Your Grace," he dipped his head in a cordial greeting, once again aloof and closed-off to her. It was like a switch with him.

She smiled sadly, nodding back. "Sandor," she turned to the door, slipping-out into the sun and making haste to her chambers. Her guard was likely worried sick about her whereabouts, and she wanted to find him before word spread that she had been missing all evening. She cast a glance back at where she had left Sandor, resisting the urge to run back to him. She wanted another night of talking to someone without fear of her words, she wanted another night of feeling understood... She wanted Sandor Clegane.


	4. Chapter 4

"What have you got there, girl?" Sandor glanced up from his dinner, his brow raising as he laid eyes on Sansa. 

She was embarrassed to admit to herself that she had spent the better part of the morning thinking of reasons to speak with Sandor Clegane, and had thought of absolutely nothing worthwhile. And so here she stood, interrupting the first meal he had eaten alone since his arrival, with two sparing swords in hand. She tossed one on the table. It landed against his cup, nearly tipping it over. He steadied it with a large hand, his eyes moving slowly from Sansa to the toy sword she had deposited in front of him. "I want to learn how to wield a sword."

He laughed. A deep laugh, his lips turning-up and his eyes crinkling at the edges. "You want to wield a fucking sword?"

"A Queen should be able to defend herself."

"A Queen has people to defend her," Sandor stated cooly, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. 

Sansa sighed, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling like petulant child. "I want to be able to defend myself."

"Alright," Sandor rose from the table, suddenly towering over her. He grabbed the sparing sword and flipped it in his hands, until the edge of the blade was resting on Sansa's chest. "Stick them with the pointy end." He snorted with laughter again, once again flicking his wrist and flipping the blade so it was aimed toward the ground.

Sansa wanted to be annoyed and insulted, but she couldn't help but laugh as well. "You have spent too much time with my sister," she giggled, rolling her eyes. "Does everyone think me so daft?" Sansa teased, lifting her own sparing sword and making to hit Sandor with it.

Easily he wrapped a large hand around the pretend blade, stopping her swing mid-blow. "No one thinks you daft, your grace."

Sansa smiled sweetly at him, feeling a bit of a blush rise to her cheeks. "If that is the case, you would show me something more useful."

"You don't need to fight," Sandor said, his voice taking on an edge, his demeanor flicking back to his typical angry-self. "You are Queen of the North. You have people to protect you. I won't teach you."

"Oh?" Sansa asked, feeling her temper begin to rise. "And what happens when I lose those people?"

"Why would you lose them?"

"Because I've lost everyone!" Sansa shouted. Sandor had released her fake blade, and she slashed at him again. This time he let her blow land on his arm, surprsingly hard. "Now teach me how to fight. Teach me to protect myself."

"No," Sandor all but growled. 

"Why? Why won't you show me how to fight?" Sansa protested, her own voice rising, she was flat-out yelling at him now.

"Because you can't do it, girl!" Sandor shouted back, the force of his voice stunning Sansa. 

As did his words. She felt wounded, and she teetered backwards. She wanted to put on a brave face, through the hurt currently coursing through her heart made that impossible. "I am a Queen, Sandor. I can do anything." She spat back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sandor took a breath, visibly composing himself. "Don't get fucking pissed, that not how I meant it."

"Than how did you mean it? Exactly."

He sighed, his stone-cold expression faltering. "You can't kill anyone, Little Bird."

"Of course I can. I have."

"When they spent years mistreating you." Sandor said. He took the toy sword, twisting it so the would-be blade was aimed at his heart. He shoved the pommel into Sansa's free hand. "You couldn't kill someone who was just following orders. You couldn't kill someone unless you had a million reasons too." He took a step forward, the wooden blade pressing against his chest. "Do you really think you could look a man in the eye, and drive this through his heart? Without hesitiation?"

Silence.

"If you hesitate, you die," Sandor stated gruffly, twisting the toy sword out of her hand, knocking her with the wooden-blade hard enough to knock her to the ground. "I won't teach you to die."

"That is unfortunate, considering you have had a lot of practice in the area," Sansa rebutted. She meant her words to be harsh, but Sandor laughed. She rolled her eyes as he extended a hand. She thought for a moment before taking it, allowing him to quite literally lift her to her feet. "I could have you beheaded for that, you know." She sighed heavily, not letting her hand leave his. "I thought I had become stronger. I thought I would be able to do it-- Drive a sword through someone's heart. What kind of coward am I if make my men do for me what I cannot even do for myself?"

"Different people show their courage in different ways," Sandor replied simply. 

Sansa smiled softly, "You are good at that."

"What?"

"Always saying what I need to hear." Sansa didn't miss the blush that colored Sandor's cheeks.


End file.
